


Masquerade

by A_Touch_Of_Insanity



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Eventual Smut, Kissing, M/M, in the past-ish, it's deep, newt is mysterious, trust me - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2561657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Touch_Of_Insanity/pseuds/A_Touch_Of_Insanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas has been invited to a masked ball. Despite his best efforts to avoid it, he actually ends up enjoying it perhaps a little too much. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the golden-masked stranger who presents an enticing puzzle just begging to be solved. Nothing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, forgive me. This is my first fanfic on Ao3. And I'm a little scared.  
> So far this fanfiction hasn't go very far but feedback definitely would be appreciated.  
> Also, I kinda want to add some smut later on. But the question is...do you want that?  
> (And another also: I have no beta and apologise in advance for everything. Sorry)

Thomas enters the ball alone, apprehension stirring in his gut. Once again, he curses himself for giving in to the will of his father so easily, to have been pressured into coming by his friends. Most people would have been honoured to be invited to a ball held by none other than the prestigious Newton family, close descendants of the British royal family, only recently arrived in the New World.  
He had been surprised, admittedly, when the invitation had first arrive in the post, handwritten and eloquent. This was to be a ball for Thomas and no other members of his family, odd considering he was still shy of seventeen years old. Since arriving in the New World Lord Newton had called many balls, a few of which Thomas' parents had been invited to. Thrilled, his mother had spent several weeks talking of little else- what she would wear, who would be there. Thomas had tried to ignore it.  
And now this, he thought the moment he first read the invite. This was a surefire way for him to end up being fussed over endlessly by his mother as well as multiple trips to a tailor's the other side of the city. He tried his best to get out of it.  
"But father," he whined, "it's a masked ball. Who has masked balls nowadays, anyway?"  
"They're British, darling," his mother had cooed. "They do these things over in Europe. And besides, you could meet a nice young lady."  
"I agree with your mother; all the wealthiest landowners and entrepreneurs get invited to these balls. You're bound to find someone suitable."  
"But they'll be old: nobody my age will be there," Thomas moaned persistently.  
"Actually, sweetheart, I know for a fact that that little friend of yours…Minho…received an invite yesterday. I was discussing it with Sylvia over luncheon," she trilled, adding an unpleasant emphasis on Minho's name. His family disliked their friendship and thought him beneath Thomas. He never understood their prejudice, just because Minho's mother was from the Far East and his father made his fortune in trade. Apparently that makes him a lower class, not that Thomas cared.  
Thomas was glad that Minho was being dragged into this as well and had hoped that later, when they met in the square as arranged, they could band together in mutual pain. So he was rather surprised to find Minho in avid conversation with Teresa discussing what they were going to wear.  
"Not you too," he groaned as they headed off the find something to eat. "Why is everyone so excited for this stupid ball?"  
"I haven't been to a ball since the one my parents threw and you know how dead embarrassing that was," she said.  
"How do you know this won't be any different?" he inquired.  
“Because the Newton’s are famous for it," she smiled. "Besides, Tom, it's a masked ball: no one will know it's you if you do something embarrassing."  
"And plus, it's a chance to show off your dancing skills and woo the women," Minho added.  
Thomas relented and eventually gave in.  
"Anyway, where am I supposed to get a mask from?"  
"Well..." Teresa began. "There's a tailor's on the east side of the river that sell them, apparently, and you can even get the custom made!"  
That is how, three days later, Thomas ended up trailing behind the excitable pair as they entered the, admittedly tasteful looking, shop. Inside, as well as suits and dresses and the normal items of clothing, there was a wall of masks.  
There was no doubting that each and every one of those masks was beautiful. Some were bright, decorated with feathers that poked from the corners or elaborate engravings carved into the cheeks. Each was very different and very aesthetically pleasing. But Thomas couldn't imagine himself in any of them.  
The tailor came out from behind his desk.  
"Another lot for the Newton's ball?" he chuckled. The man seemed ancient, white hair tufting from his pale scalp, spotted and crumpled with age. Despite this, he seemed friendly enough. We nodded.  
He sighed. "I'm afraid you're already too late to have a custom made mask but I suppose if you really wanted I could make a few alterations. I've got so many orders at the moment. Anyway, have you seen any that are calling to you or do you want a bit of help?"  
It was Minho who replied. "I'm afraid we're quite new to this. Could you help us choose?"  
He nodded painfully and scowled at Minho's face as if studying it intently. "Interesting complexion you've got there, young man."  
Minho turned his head away in shame and Thomas tensed. "Don't speak to him like that," Thomas hissed through gritted teeth.  
The old man brushed it off. "I'm merely stating the obvious. China or perhaps...?"  
"My mother was Korean," Minho asserted. "But I've never been there."  
The man was now scouring the wall yet continued to talk to Minho. "Your mother...were they married?"  
Teresa gasped at the man's rudeness. "It's none of your business," Minho growled.  
"I'm assuming not, then," he mused, before turning back to them, mask in hand. "I apologise. Sometimes my curiosity excels my manners."  
He handed the mask to Minho who, under Teresa's glare, unwillingly tried it on.  
It was dark green in colour but emblazoned with black swirls. The mask itself extended to low on his cheeks before rising symmetrically to expose the tip of his nose. The top was a smooth curve and the edges spiralled away to coil round his ears. Despite that I could still see his eyes, Minho was unrecognisable as himself. I saw a smile creep across the visible portion of his face as he moved to view his reflection.  
"Did I choose well?" the man asked.  
"Splendidly, Sir," he drawled.  
He turned back to the wall and almost instantly plucked one and handed it to Theresa. She put it on.  
This mask covered almost her entire face in black velvet, close fitting so it almost felt familiar to her face. The design was emphasised with gold bordering for the edges and accenting the eyes. It complimented her dark hair whilst contrasting the visible pale skin.  
As Teresa went with Minho to admire her face, Thomas was left shuffling awkwardly whilst the man scanned over the remaining masks. He hummed quietly to himself, his hand hovering above some masks, wavering, before being retracted swiftly. After a while, he turned back to Thomas.  
"None of these are quite right," he stated and began to walk behind the desk, gesturing for me to follow. As he went past, Thomas noticed the mask that the man had been working on when they arrived.  
It covered almost half the face so that, when worn, it would obscure the left side. It was coloured a dark gold that, upon closer inspection, was inscribed with thousands of words that Thomas could not read, not only because they were tiny but that they made no sense to him. The expression the mask showed was something akin to boredom and yet it still was reminiscent of an angel. What surprised Thomas most about it was the eye which, rather than being left as a hole, was filled with a   
Thomas hadn't realised he'd been staring until the old man spoke up. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"  
Thomas looked up, confused. "So much so that surely the beauty of the wearer's right side would pale in comparison?"  
"Aye, on anyone else it would," he agreed. "But this is a custom made mask, a commission. It was designed to fit him exactly so that it would not need any fitting to keep it up. It was made with the wearer in mind and perfected to compliment his appearance, not overshadow it. If you're lucky, boy, you might see it at the dance."  
He was in the process of attempting to resist the urge to reach out and touch it. "Why is the eye filled in?"  
The man smiled sadly. "Now that, I cannot say. Wait here a moment."  
He did as instructed and a few minutes late the old man came back. He carried an object wrapped in cotton. Handing it to Thomas, he unwrapped it.  
Inside was a mask unlike the others he had seen. It was smaller for a start, a small band of the mask encompassing each eye. Although not explicitly stated with feathers or similar, the mask was clearly that of a bird, the eyes narrowing at each end. The giveaway was the nose, ridged along the crest and longer the mask to settle in a point just above the end of Thomas' actual nose. It was coloured silver than gradually darkened around the beak and textured to give the impression of plumage. Thomas admired it in his hands.  
"It was a custom design. The owners never came to collect it but I thought...you're the first customer since who has the potential to do it justice."  
We all bought our masks and left, buzzing about the ball. And I was left wondering about why he gave me the mask and why he had never sold it before.

However excited he was then, that was all gone now. His father had sent him alone, in his own carriage but now he wishes he had arrived with his friends. Despite that he knows what their masks look like, he can't see them anywhere. The room is a whirl of coloured masks and noise.  
Curiously enough, despite his complaint, most of the people in the room appear to be around his age. Obviously it is difficult to gauge due to the masks but the fleeting glimpses of fake red lips and powder for the girls with their long flowing locks and the hard mouths and smooth skin of boys with their short styled rainbow of hair colour. These speak of people just entering their primes, no longer lumpy and awkward children but young adults. Thomas could not identify a single person in the room over their mid-twenties.  
Another notable curiosity was that not one person was with a partner. Almost everyone entered alone, as Thomas had, and now danced with more than one person, not pairing off as would be expected in a dance of the children of the wealthiest men this side if America. Perhaps this is usual of a masked ball, Thomas notes to himself.  
He feels a hand on his shoulder. Heart racing, he turns swiftly to face whoever it is, presumably expecting to be mocked.  
The boy he is now facing is beautiful. That much he could tell just from lean body that was displayed in a tight fitting white shirt and dark trousers added to a remarkably fashionable tailcoat. That much he could tell from the perfect clear skin of his jaw and collar. That much he could tell by the golden hair that hung loosely onto his neck and blended seamlessly into his mask.  
From the half of face that was on display, Thomas feels that he is quite serious. When he had first seen the mask in the shop, he had wondered how a person could not be identifiable with the entirety of the right side of his face exposed but now he sees that even if he had encountered the boy before, Thomas would not be able to recognise him. He was as anonymous as any person in the room.  
Thomas suddenly realised that he had been staring and also that he had no idea why the boy had called his attention. That was when he noticed the delicate hand outstretched towards his own, palm facing the ceiling.  
"May I have this dance?" he asks in a tone that is clear but lilted significantly with some form of accent. Whatever it was, it made Thomas feel like his heart had melting and was now just draining away through his insides.  
Confused, Thomas glances around the room and saw for the first time that evening that many of the couples dancing were in fact of the same gender; boys or men in suits holding each other tightly about the waist, women with frocks long enough to trip on twirling together in close dance. Perhaps they know they can't be identified, Thomas thinks. Perhaps this is normal.  
Thomas doesn't even glance at the empty black eye of the mask as he takes the boy's hand, only the exposed eye that was boring into his own pleadingly. He sees the uncovered corner of the boy's lip curl upward as Thomas is led to the dance floor.  
When they stop, Thomas feeling self-conscious and confused, the taller boy places his hand on Thomas' waist and takes the other hand in his own.  
"You don't mind if I lead, do you?" he says, voice low and soft, so close to Thomas' ear that he can feel the breath tickling in his hair.  
Truth be told, even Thomas admits that he's not exactly the best dancer and so nods, happy to give up position as the lead. Besides, Thomas is nearly half a head shorter than the boy with the golden mask and that would make leading a lot more difficult.  
Immediately, the boy begins to move. Although Thomas had already noticed that he appear to favour one foot, the boy dances elegantly and as he swept him around the room there was no trace of a limp. Thomas felt clumsy and awkward in comparison, fumbling through simple steps in an attempt to keep up. He can see the concentration on his face reflected in the smooth black stone of the boy's masked eye.  
When the dancing slows a little, he has time to catch his breath. The boy leans in and pulls him closer. Thomas, who should be feeling awkward and uneasy, feels confident and strangely comfortable in his embrace.  
"What's your name?" the boy breathes.  
Thomas hesitates, momentarily distracted by the voice. "Oh...I'm Thomas."  
"Thomas," he repeats, trying it out. He makes a slight grunt but it did not necessarily sound approving. The boy suddenly whipped his head round, tense.  
And then he vanished, the embrace suddenly cold and Thomas was alone on the dance floor.  
Now that the distraction is gone, the colours around him seem too bright, over-focussed. The dancers seem sickening as they twirled about him and dizziness twists his stomach. Stumbling slightly, he tries to escape but trips over his own feet and crashes into a dancing couple.   
Thomas apologises hastily and repeatedly and he attempts to claw himself off the floor.  
“Thomas? Tom?” he hears a voices screech. He looks up to see that the girl he had collapsed into was Teresa, complete with her velvet mask and a beautiful navy gown. “Oh my…you’re drunk, aren’t you?”  
Thomas shakes his head and murmurs protest as he stands. She grabs his arm and pulls him away from the dancers and the crowd, leaning him against the wall. When she gets back, she has a glass full of water in her hand.   
“Tom, are you okay?” she asks, concerned, as he downs the entire glass of water in a few seconds. “You look a little green.”  
“I feel really ill.”  
She scowls. “If this is you trying to find and excuse to go home you’d better forget that right now,” she scolds. “You embarrassed me! And I was getting on really well with that boy, Geoffrey. His father owns half of the biggest bank in America.”  
I shake my head forcefully, “No! I was dancing and it was fine and then suddenly…” He rests his head against the behind wall and closes his eyes but he could still see the golden imprint left in his mind.  
“Jesus, Thomas. You danced with him for like two minutes!”  
Thomas jerks his eyes open to see a dark green masked figure not far from where he’s standing, smirking. It took only a few second for his muddled mind to figure out who was speaking.  
“Minho?” he confirms, although he already knows the answer.  
“Shh!” he hushes sarcastically. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”  
It only now registered in Thomas’ mind what he had previously said. “Wait, you saw me dancing?”  
Mihno rolls his eyes. “You see anyone else here in a bird mask? Of course I saw you. You were swooning over that blond kid.”  
Thomas sighs. “Thank God. I thought I might’ve imagined him.”  
“Either he was real or we’re both having the same suspiciously gold-tinted dream,” Minho quips. “Actually, come to think of it…”  
“Can one of you please explain to me what is going on?” Teresa interrupts. Thomas stutters in response.  
“I’m failing at not being recognised and I believe Thomas just fell deeply and passionately in love,” Minho smirks.  
“What?” Thomas protests quickly.  
“No, Minho, you’re mistaken,” Theresa laughs. “Thomas didn’t fall in love, he fell on me.”  
Minho may have replied with another equal witty and insightful comment but Thomas wouldn’t have noticed. He is too distracted with a flash of gold.  
“Do you even know his name, Tom?” Teresa rudely interrupts his thoughts.  
“What? Oh…umm…” Thomas murmurs. He sees the gold again and begins to head towards it.  
“Thomas!” Minho calls. “Where are you going?”  
Thomas brushes him off.  
“Leave him, Minho. Love is weird.”  
Thomas ignores her. He doesn't care what they think. All he wants is to see his golden boy again. He wants to dance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback!  
> Still undecided on the smut front. I'll see how it goes.  
> In the meantime, have some newmas feels.
> 
> (I don't have a beta (I'm too lonely))

Thomas watches the boy with the golden hair, the golden mask...in fact, everything about him screamed of golden perfection. This time his gut was twisted, not with nerves but with jealousy.

Having seen a flash of the boy through the crowd, Thomas walked there as quickly as he could while not looking rushed and awkward. Even whist wearing the mask, Thomas feels so self-conscious, begging not to stand out from the crowd.

And then he saw the boy fully. He was dancing with someone else. A girl.

She notices Thomas staring and gives him a sour expression. He can't help but liken the girl's face to that of a horse with it's long face and wide spaced eyes. She glares at him but it's not particularly intimidating. Thomas decides to ignore her.

He had been watching the same girl earlier in the evening. She had really stood out to him as unique; in a room of whirling colours and smiling faces, hers seemed the brightest fabric, the largest grin. And yet it still seemed as though she were overcompensating for something, her face too painted into a permanent grin whilst the dress looked cheap and distasteful. He wondered whether even she had noticed this as the others around her clearly hadn't she was passed from partner to partner who all seemed so willing to offer a dance. She had kept his mind occupied. But there is a better distraction now.

And so Thomas just stands to the side, watching him. He doesn't think the boy has noticed him as he quietly observes every detail. How delicately his holds the girl, how lightly he sways whilst elegantly swerving across in dance. He notices too that he holds the girl a distance, not pulling her to him as he had Thomas. Thomas clings to this detail, holding it like it was the only thing he has. Maybe, just maybe, he might...

The boy catches sight of Thomas with his one visible eye and leans forward. Thomas thinks at first that he does it to spite him but realises a few seconds later that he is whispering something in her ear. She giggles and trots off into the crowd.

The boy seems to physically relax as he slinks closer to Thomas, smile creeping onto the visible half of his face.  
"Hello, Thomas," he says, hand outstretched. "Come to dance?"

"No, actually," he snaps, gaining confidence. "I've come to talk."

"Well, then. Go ahead."

Thomas hesitates, suddenly unsure as to what he truly wants to know. "Why didn't you tell me your name?" Newt cocks his head to the side in confusion. "I told you my name. The natural flow of conversation would be for you to tell me yours."

"I already figured you'd be back."

"That's no excuse! How was I supposed to find-"

"Newt," he says abruptly. "You can call me Newt."

Thomas narrows his eyes but it is impossible to tell whether he is being serious or not.

There was a pause in conversation that perhaps would have been an uncomfortable silence if it weren't for the music and talking. Newt averts his eyes slightly and smiles to himself.

"So...how do you know the host?" he asks casually.

"Umm... I don't really. My parents know them, I guess, but I don't really know why they invited me and not them. How about you?"  
Newt doesn't miss a beat. "We travelled to the New World on the same ship. There weren’t many people in upper class so we were kind of stuck with each other for a few months," he says.

"Are your...parents here?"

Newt laughs. "How young do you think I am?" he splutters. Thomas begins to mumble apologies, cheeks flaming. He now feels stupid for assuming Newt's age was similar to his own. "Don't worry yourself; they excused themselves from this ball. Decided to let me play with the other children."

So Thomas was right in his earlier observation; this was a ball for the children of the richest families, not the parents themselves. "I object to being referred to as a child," Thomas protests.

"Sure you do. How old are you; fourteen?"

"Nearly seventeen," Thomas snaps. Newt just laughs.

"Clearly not old enough to know when you're being teased," he chuckles. Placing an outstretched hand on Thomas' upper arm, he continues, "Relax, Tommy. I'm joking!"

Thomas continued to pout but his insides did somersaults as the small amount of physical contact. Newt, somehow noticing this, asks:  
"Are you sure you can't take me up on that dance? We'e not exactly blending in," he says. "Besides, if we dance slowly we can talk at the same time." Thomas nods meekly but inside dances with giddiness as Newt once again places his hand on his waist. Newt leans in and whispers, "and it also means that you might be able to keep up."

They begin to sway as Thomas grunts in protest.

"Emphasis on the maybe," Newt taunts.

Thomas lets out a laugh. "You, good sir, are unbelievably rude to someone who you've only just met."

"Well, you know," he smirks, "Start as you mean to go on."

Thomas heart seems intent on clawing its way out of his chest whilst his stomach seems perfectly happy squeezing itself into a tiny scrunched up ball.

"You want this to...to go on?" Thomas stutters, cheeks inflaming.

Newt chuckles, low and quiet, matching perfectly with his accent. "Sure, why not? You seem a perfectly decent guy and I'm not exactly rolling in friends. I'd like to get to know you, Thomas."

"Can I have that in writing?" Thomas says bitterly.

"Pardon?" Newt blink, confused.

"Sorry, it's just a minute ago I saw you with that girl and I thought...I dunno what I thought."

Newt hesitates. "Why do you care?" he asks, a mix of curious and defensive.

"I guess..." he pauses. Suddenly he feels hurt but can't bring himself to pull away from the golden boy's grip. "I guess I thought that you...chose me. To dance with." Thomas stares straight at the single eye that swayed close to his own. Suddenly he drops the eye contact. "But I guess you probably just did it out of pity."

"Pity?" he laughs mocking. "You were standing on your own, with those turned down lips and gloomy puppy eyes. You can't blame me, Tommy, you made yourself look pitiful!"   
Thomas stares, mouth agape. "And anyway, that wasn't the reason. Or at least the only reason."

"What was it then? Were you just sampling? Having a go at everyone to see which you like best?

"Natural selection, Tommy. Keep your options open, try out the opposition-"

"Is that all I am, then: another potential opponent?" Thomas shrieks, not caring if anyone hears. Okay, so maybe he does but in a fit of rage it doesn't matter. He tries to pull away and fails, Newt pulling him closer with lithe arms encircling his waist, trapping their bodies together.

"Actually it's the other way round," Newt murmurs, low so that in the crowded room only Thomas can hear. "I was testing her as my opposition. I saw you watch her earlier and wondered if maybe you might have thought her...attractive. I thought perhaps she might be the prettiest girl in the room. Then again, I never could really tell. Also it was another good way to attract you attention."

Thomas stayed silent, breaths deep against Newt's chest. He relaxed for a second to catch him off guard and then suddenly pulled away, breaking from his firm grasp.

"You're lying," Thomas spat.

"What makes you so sure?"

Thomas, unwilling to answer, turns away with the intention of leaving through the crowd. But as soon as turns round he is stuck once again by the push of bodies, the sickening blend of colours, the noise that now seems to roar in his ears, the heat as if inside each person was a tiny furnace. Thomas stumbles unbalanced but stays on his feet staring,   
transfixed by the crowd.

Another sound is added to the cacophony. This time it is a voice shouting his name, sounding so distant whilst standing so near.

And then there's a hand on his shoulder and Thomas has something to focus on. He knows who the hand belongs to and know that he should push it away but now he has something to ground him with. He shuts off his body to just feel the hand, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. He tries to gauge its size, stretching the thumb in his mid to reach the shoulder blade or collarbone. He imagines Newt's hand on his chest, stroking his chin, caressing his inner thighs...

"Thomas? Tommy, are you going to faint?" the soothing voice from behind him asked, voice suddenly clear over the deafening crowd. "It's okay, if you want to fall, I'll catch you."

That is all Thomas needed. He stopped clutching at the dizzying threads of consciousness and instead released them willingly, sinking into the blackness in the hope that he was telling the truth.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas opens his eyes blearily.

"Tom! Thank God, you're awake," a voice exclaims, close to him.

It takes a few moments for him to register his surroundings. He is in a large room filled with hard couches; very ornate and very expensive. The walls are smothered with paintings. Some are of sweeping country views and little cottages on the edge of tiny streams whilst others are of people; men with sharp noses and downturned mouths, women with simpering smiles and powdered cheeks. To one side of the room huge windows are filled with the murky dark of a recently set sun. In he centre of these is a glass door, presumably leading to a balcony or porch.

He is laid across one of the couches, head propped up by several plump cushions. It surprised him to see that his shoes had been taken off and are paired neatly on the floor next to the couch. And, at the end of the bed, sat Teresa.

"How do you feel, Tom?" she asks.

"Newt..." Thomas thinks out loud, remembering what had happened. "Where's Newt?" Teresa's face is blank and that's when Thomas remembers that she doesn't know his name.

"I was dancing with him before I..."

"Oh, you mean the boy with...?" she gestures to the left side of her face. Thomas nods in confirmation. "I sent him to go find Minho."

That's when Thomas notices two thing simultaneously. The first is that he the dull roar in his ears is actually the sound of music and talking coming from the ball in a nearby room. The second is that he can see Teresa's face.

"Teresa, where's your mask?" he gasps.

"I took your mask off because I thought it might be hurting you. And since there's no one in here but you, I thought I should take mine off as well."

"But Newt...what if he comes back in?" Thomas panics and begins to sit up.

Teresa pushes him back down. "I don't mind him seeing. It's not really a big deal."

It is to me," Thomas growls quietly, scrabbling around in search of it. Teresa reaches down calmly and holds it out in front of her but when Thomas snatches at it she simply pulls it out of reach. "If you insist that you're going to wear it at least let me put it on you," she tuts. Thomas leans toward obligingly and allows her to slide it into position over his face. It feels much better like that, despite the slight rigid discomfort caused by the mask.

 _"_ How did I get here?" Thomas wonders out loud.

"Oh, your friend Newt carried you. You almost collapsed in the hall but he caught you and took you away," Teresa says before blushing slightly, awkward. "I saw him carrying you out of the room while you were out and I was worried that he might...I don't know quite what but you cannot blame me for being concerned when a stranger carries your unconscious friend from the dancehall. I followed and told him to go get Minho."

"Why didn't you go get Minho yourself?" Thomas interrupts.

Teresa turns an even more violent shade of scarlet. "I didn't want to leave him alone with you. I thought that maybe, since you couldn't defend yourself, he might...take advantage of you."

Thomas splutters. "Newt is not like that!"

"How would you know? You've known him all of and hour and a half."

"I just know, okay?" Thomas snaps, just as the door bursts open.

He cranes his neck in time of see a flask of gold before the door was hurriedly pulled shut.

Minho rushes across the room and kneels beside the couch where Thomas is strewn.

"Oh Thomas, my love, he is dying!" Minho squeals dramatically, pushing Thomas's chest so he is laying down on his back. Minho takes his hand. "I fear it is too late, my darling, to save you. Please, before you leave me for ever, sweetheart, indulge me in this one final request-" He leaps to his feet and sits across Thomas' lap. "Kiss me, Thomas," he says, the dead seriousness of his face contrasting with the words he was saying.

Thomas sits up and for a brief second panic flashes across Minho's face as he thinks that Thomas might actually kiss him. Thomas reaches up as if to cup his jaw and runs his thumb along the hard bone there. Suddenly he flicks his hand and pushes Minho's face hard so he goes tumbling to the ground. Thomas flops back into the lying position, laughter erupting from his chest. Teresa also is in a fit of giggles.

Minho huffs indignantly. "Well that, young man, was not a very nice thing to do to your poor friend," he says. "Especially since I hurried straight here after your friend interrupted me from a dance with a very beautiful young women who I was in the process of wooing."

"How could you tell?" Teresa asks.

"That she was being wooed? Well, I myself am an expert in the art. The only person who is seemingly immune to my persistent attempts is Thomas here."

"No," Teresa says patiently, "how could you tell that she was beautiful. Presumably she was wearing a mask."

"You can tell someone is beautiful without seeing their face," Thomas interjects, and image of Newt flashing on his inward eye.

Minho and Teresa share a knowing look.

The group hear a gentle knock on the door.

"Speaking of the devil," Minho smirks. "That's our cue to leave."

Teresa hits Minho playfully and the pair stand up and begin to leave with Thomas staring back after them. Just before the door, when they think Thomas can't hear them, Teresa whispers to Minho, "Are you sure about this? I don't trust him," she worries. "And with Thomas not completely better he could...I don't know what. I don't want to know."

Minho smiles sadly. "We've got to let our baby bird leave the nest eventually. You can't hold on to him forever, Teresa."

"But that boy-"

"-is the person Thomas is smitten with. We've got to learn to accept that."

Teresa sighs but nods her head in acceptance.

They slip out of the door without another word, leaving Thomas staring after them.

Knowing that Newt would be here any second, he began to sort himself out. By the time he looks up after straightening his mask and shirt, Newt is gently shutting the door behind himself.

"Hey," he says, smile creeping onto the exposed part of his face. Thomas sits up and gazes across at Newt who is hovering in the doorway, almost scared looking, skittish, as if he could bolt at any second.

Thomas reaches out with one hand and gestures for Newt to come sit beside him. Without hesitation, he rushes forward and sits beside him quickly, face a mixture between caution and elation.

"You bloody terrified me, Tommy," Newt sighed. "Does this happen often with you?"

"Umm...not really," Thomas mused. "I don't really do crowds."

"Is that what it was? Do you not like being around lots of people at once?"

"I honestly don't know. I've felt ill before but I've always managed to get out before I collapsed," Thomas mutters, cheeks flaming red.

"Good thing I was there to bring you away, then," Newt smirks, features saturated with smugness.

"Oh yeah, Newt, why did you bring me here?" Thomas wonders.

"Well, I had to get you away from the crowd."

"No, I mean why did you bring me _here_?" Thomas persists. "And how did you find this room?"

"Err...I've been here a couple of times before so I knew that this room was close and had a balcony. I didn't know it wouldn't be occupied," Newt blushes and smiles to himself as he continues, "I was planning on taking you to a bedroom for a full recovery but your friend Teresa was already giving me strange looks. Also I fear that carrying you unconscious from the room may have started people talking without adding further incriminating details."

Thomas chuckles before they lapse into a somewhat uncomfortable quiet. All Thomas can hear is the ringing in his head mixed with a thrumming heartbeat as well as a dim rumble of talking and music from the ball room. Thomas opens his mouth to say something but just as the first syllable leaves his mouth, Newt starts talking.

"Look, Tommy, I'm really sorry about anything I said earlier, I was being completely irrational," Newt garbles hurriedly. He hold out a hand for Thomas to shake. "Forgive me?"

Thomas smiles and shakes the hand but, when it is over, neither want to break the contact. They hold their hands together as Thomas' cheeks darken a few shades. He tries to retract it. Newt, however, holds on tight.

Newt's eyes contact flicks to the darkened windows. "Want to go on to the balcony?" _  
_

Thomas, at a loss for words, simply nods. Newt tugs at his hand and pulls him across the room with entwined fingers. He pushes open the door with a little effort and gestures for Thomas to go through. Thomas can feel the chill of the outside air and can see the reflection of himself in the door. Self-conscious, he touches his hair to make sure it looks as neat as possible; he slicked it with grease before he came to the ball so that it wouldn't fall near his mask and obstruct his view. Now, after feinting, it was now ruffled at the edges. Whatever he could do, it would not improve.

How could Newt's hair look so angelic when he had not even bothered to comb it or slick it back as is the fashion currently? He looked as if he had not cut it for months and yet each part seemed perfectly intended to match with his outfit...his mask...his face...his...

Sighing, Thomas straightens his collar again and steps into the darkness outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it so far! I'm trying to update every few days or so.  
> Also, I want to start another Maze Runner fic. What ship do you want?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back! Have some newmas feels.

That's an a odd place to have a balcony. That is the first thing Thomas thinks as he steps out on to the ornate stone. It is true; the balcony faces East. This means that the room is facing away from what is sure to be a spectacular sunset on the other side. Actually, sunset has already past as, whilst the horizon to the front is dark, as far as Thomas could see to the sides it there was only a fading glow. He supposes that if he ever stayed here overnight, there would be a beautiful sunrise on display.

The thought makes him blush.

"Still too hot?" Newt smirks. Damn, Thomas thinks, how the hell could Newt see the exact coloration of his cheeks in the dim light. And with only one eye exposed.

"No, I'm fine," Thomas murmurs.

"You sure? 'Cause something has you flustered," Newt teases. "Although overheating does seem and unlikely explanation." He glances poignantly at Thomas' feet.

He has forgotten to put his shoes back on. His white socks glow coldly in the dull light. Thomas wriggles his toes.

"My feet enjoy being exposed to the outside air," Thomas explains mockingly. The lie is so obvious that it sounds pretentious and condescending. Thomas wants to take it back but Newt merely chuckles in response so he decides to ignore it.

"Hey, I know something that'll warm you up," Newt laughs boldly, taking a step closer to Thomas, so that they are close to touching. Thomas shrunk away from his obvious insinuations, blushes upon blushes. The implications made were enough to make  Thomas cringe normally; now, however, his insides just twist in apprehension.

Newt laughs again and pats him on the arm, steeping away. "Wow, Tommy. You are so easy to wind up," Newt says and walks off the balcony and into the room. "I'll be back in a second, okay?"

Thomas lets him go without further questioning. He leans with his elbows on the railings, head in hands, staring at the rising moon whilst attempting to quench the fire that seems to be burning gently in his lower stomach.

Don't think about him, Thomas tells himself, don't think about his hair and how it would feel to thread his fingers in it. Don't think about his lips and how soft they could feel against his own. Don't think about his lean body...his sculpted chest...how perfect his lips would look wrapped around his...

Thomas' thoughts turn less innocent.

"Jesus, Thomas," he hears a voice reprimand and it takes a few second to realise that he was speaking aloud. Thomas is in deep. Far too far for someone he met only a few hours ago. Far too far for someone he doesn't know to face of but if the other half is like the one exposed then God help him Thomas is lost. He grinds his knuckles into his forehead and kneads his temples fiercely.

Trying to distract himself once more, Thomas glances down. His stomach lurches as he looks down past several stories to the darkened ground below. Crowd and heights, Thomas decides, are his dreads in life.

 _If you want to fall, I'll catch you_.

Newt's words from earlier are so vivid that Thomas turns round to face them, expecting him to be back.  Thomas didn't really understand what he had meant, anyway. Looking back over the balcony, Thomas chuckled to himself. He definitely would be able to catch him if he jumps off here.

"What's so amusing?" Newt asks as he steps onto the balcony. Thomas turns to see Newt walking towards him. In each of his hands is a small glass of amber liquid. He looks at them in puzzlement. "You were laughing: I assumed that something was funny."

"Doesn't matter," Thomas off hands. "What is that?"

Newt hands him one of the small glasses. Thomas swirls the liquid carefully. "It's brandy," Newt smiles. Thomas' face was blank. "An alcoholic beverage," Newt confirms in a voice that makes his stomach scrunch in adoration.

Thomas brings the glass cautiously to his lips, apprehensive. Despite his age, he has barely ever tried alcohol before. Still, he didn't want to look immature in front of Newt.

The sip of liquid that enters his mouth is bitter beyond compare, scalding his throat as he hurriedly swallows it. Thomas cringes at the aftertaste.

Newt splutters with laughter, the air of sophistication that surrounds him momentarily breaking. It is quickly replaced. "It's an acquired taste," Newt chuckles, taking a small mouthful and cringing himself. "Disgusting stuff, isn't it?"

"Why would anyone drink this?" Thomas says, holding the glass closer to his eyes to inspect its contents.

Newt takes another quick gulp. "After a few sips, you don't notice the taste anymore."

Thomas tries again. Not quite as unpalatable as the first, but still disgusting. Despite this, a few seconds later he tried again.

"I hope you're right."

"Of course I'm bloody right!" Newt says with another mouthful of the sickening liquid. It still scorches his throat but this time leaves behind a strange warmth.

"Where did you get this stuff?" Thomas laughs. "I didn't see any at the party."

"That's because there wasn't any," he smirks. "I just happen to know where Sir Newton keeps his liquor."

Thomas automatically takes another sip without even realising it. After a moments pause, he plucks up the courage to ask something that has been preying on his mind.

"How did you learn to dance like that?"

Newt chuckles softly. "I'm British, Tommy. I learnt to dance whilst I was still a toddler. But I prefer it without an audience."

He holds out a hand and it takes a second for Thomas to understand what he's asking. Cautiously, he accepts the hand.

They dance together around the balcony.the music could still be heard quietly from a few rooms away and so they had a rhythm to keep to. It felt so much more intimate than dancing in a room of people. They were doing it for them, not for the crowds to see. Newt holds him much closer, their bodies pressed close together in a way that feels not exactly normal for Thomas, but certainly pleasant in one way or another.

When one piece ends, Newt embraces Thomas further. He leans down on Thomas' right side so that his exposed face is next to Thomas' ear. So close, in fact, that when he spoke, he could feel the gentle movement of air in his hair.

"I want to see you."

Thomas is startled by the request. What is it supposed to mean?

Sensing his confusion, Newt leans back and unravels his hands from the embrace. Next he reaches behind Thomas' head and gently pulls at something there. The ribbons holding Thomas' mask in position.

His first reaction is to save his anonymity, to push Newt away and scream for help.

Instead, he decides on staying still.

Newt carefully places his long fingers on each side of the mask, the corners closest to his ears. Although he had not explicitly given his permission, Newt took his not reaction as reason enough to gently lift the mask from Thomas' face.

Thomas closes his eyes; he does not want to see Newt's reaction to his face. What if, once the mystery is gone, Newt is no longer interested in him?  
Thomas feels cool air on his face and knows that the deed is done; he is exposed. Cautiously, he opens his eyes.

In the onyx reflection from Newt's masked eye he can see his own face staring back at him. He feels the urge to turn away, the shield himself from Newt's wide eye. Scared solid, he remains once again frozen in position.

After a agonising pause, Newt slowly lifts his hand and places it, trembling, on Thomas' face. His hands are so elongate that his palm rests against Thomas' chin whilst his fingertips brush the corner of his eye. His thumb strokes the soft skin if his cheek.

"I think..." Newt gulps, letting go and turning to face out from the balcony. "I think you're beautiful."

Thomas fixes his gaze on the ground. He doesn't want to see the look on Newt's face, doesn't want to here about his beauty. He sees Newt move and when he looks up, he is no longer looking at Thomas, but leaning against the railings with his gaze set on the moon.

Thomas doesn't want to approach him, he is far too scared. He wants to scream and run away and go back to his house, his family, his friends. He wants to rush forward and hold Newt in his arms and tell him that they are destined to be together.

Caught between the two, he simply stands, frozen.

"Do you ever wonder, Tommy," he begins, not bothering to turn. "What it would be like to live a perfectly normal life?"

 _I'm living it_ , Thomas thinks and knows that, up until this night, it was true. "Peaceful, I guess."

"I doubt it," Newt smiles to himself. "An absolutely average man with an average job, average pay. His days would pass by perfectly normally. Wouldn't he be driven insane?"

"I doubt it," Thomas interrupts. "For a perfectly normal person would never have reason to ponder on such things."

"He'd be too busy living. Going to work, marrying his wife, looking after his children, pleasing his parents. It's quite a lot of effort to maintain normality," Newt ponders, still not looking back at Thomas. "What then? What if something suddenly happened that made him realise he might not be so ordinary after all. If he had the chance to do something brilliant, something scary, something...extraordinary? Would he do it?"

Thomas pauses, deeply submerged in thought. "No. He'd run away and go back to his life."

Newt sighs in discontent. "What if he didn't have a choice?" he smirks, turning towards Thomas at last.

"There is always a choice," Thomas retorts, uneasy at the glint in Newt's eyes.

"But couldn't he just...go with it? And then if he didn't like it he could back out."

Thomas does like how oddly specific their hypothetical situation has become all of a sudden.

Too late, Thomas realised what was about to happen. Standing close, Newt dipped his head to brush his lips over Thomas'. Thomas felt the tickle of warm flesh juxtaposed by the ungiving metal before he reacts, twisting his head to the side in an attempt to make his lips unreachable. Newt persists regardless, leaning over to the side and tugging Thomas' head by the hair. It was only a brief touch of lips this time before Thomas could pull away.

This time, Newt lets him break from the forced embrace and scuttle to the side, visible eye twisted with hurt.

"I'm not going to kiss you," Thomas offers by way of explanation. "Not with that mask on."

It isn't just that, with the mask on, half of Newt's mouth is concealed. It was that he can not see his face, cannot gauge what he truly looks like.

"I'm not going to take it off," Newt hisses, trying to sound unconcerned but his voice cracks half way through.

"Then give me my mask back and you'll never have to here from me again," Thomas retorts. He can see his own mask glinting from the railings of the balcony.

"No," Newt snaps. "I like being able to see your face."

"Oh, the irony," Thomas laughs bitterly. He makes a lunge for the mask.

But by the time is it within reach, Newt is already there. He grabs the mask and holds it over the black void below.

"You bastard," Thomas spits.

"Kiss me, Tommy," he says. "Kiss me and you can have it back.

"I refuse."

"Fine, then," Newt shrugs and lets the mask slip from his grasp.

Thomas pauses in shock. And then, quite inexplicably, he does something very unlike him. In rage that is fuelled with hurt and betrayal he grabs Newt's face, digging his fingers into the soft flesh around the edge of the mask and prying it away from his face. He rips it off Newt and hurtles it off the balcony. He sees the despised mask, which he had thought was beautiful, disappear into the blackness.

Newt crumples, hands coming up to shield the left side of his face and turning away so quickly that Thomas could even catch a glimpse of it.

"Go away," Newt hisses. Thomas is once again frozen to the spot. Voice hoarse, Newt says again, louder, "Go away, Tommy. Leave me alone." Again, no reaction. "Get out if here!" he yells.

Thomas bolts. He runs back into the room, not even stopping to grab his shoes. At the door however, he hesitates. Looking back out into the dark he sees Newt curled on the floor, clutching his face. Thomas hears him say one thing before he leaves the room.

"Come back when you decide not to be ordinary anymore."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this hasn't been updated in forever. But to make up for that there will be another chapter starting soon including some cute stuff.

Thomas lies on his bed, staring at a fly trapped against his window. He watches it attempt to fly through the glass again and again, its erratic buzzing faintly irritating but there is no way he can muster the energy to kill it. It's dying anyway, Thomas notes its thick flight becoming more sluggish and its collisions more irregular. It is slowly cooking under the focused heat o the midday sun. Thomas yet to get up from his bed and he thinks that perhaps he has forgotten how to function. He has not been fully awake nor fully asleep now for almost a week.

  
At first he was ill. His parents sighed that perhaps he had drunk a glass of wine to many but still fussed over him like a child. After a day they had encouraged him to get up but he could not.

  
Teresa visited him, of course, and for her he could sit up, pace about his room and even crack a smile. He is getting better now, perhaps, as he stumbled to dinner yesterday in haze and sat with his parents whilst they ate. He did not fully hold a conversation but he tried and his parents thanked him.

  
He hears the doorbell and is pulled out of his endless thoughts to listening. His mothers voice speaks, words muffled by the distance. Her voice raises in maybe anger before finally she says audibly, "He's in his room."

  
He sighs. Another visitor? He does not want the company, resents it almost.

  
Minho crashes through the door, smiling slightly through open mouth as he attempts to control his breathing. "No offence, Thomas, but your mother is a nutcase!"

  
Thomas smiles weakly, "is that because she doesn't like you?"

  
"Obviously," he smirks before turning serious. "Anyway, what the hell? Teresa just told me you've been in bed like all week? What happened to you?"

"I've been ill."

"Yeah, okay mate but you look fine. I was expecting sweating, coughing blood, vomiting for this kinda laziness to be acceptable."

"I'm sorry I don't match up to your high standards," Thomas chuckles and it feels new to him, like he hasn't laughed in weeks.

"Thomas...Teresa told me that you...that you have been like this since the party and I guess I was kinda worrying because Teresa was unsure but basically what I'm asking is...is..." he trails off.

"What?" Thomas asks.

"What did that boy do to you? The one you met at the ball?"

"Nothing..." Thomas paused.

"Did he rape you?"

"Jesus, Minho! No, of course he didn't," assures and saw the other boy visibly relax.

Minho sighs and sits on the end of the bed, eyes locked with Thomas. "Did you...fall in love?"

Yes, Thomas wants to say, I fell in love and out of love in one evening and the nausea of it is making me dizzy. I can't tell if I love him or hate him or both or neither and my mind has torn me apart.

"No," is all he says.

"Thank God," Minho sighs and after a brief conversation leaves relieved.

Thomas still lay on his bed, not properly dressed when his mother knocks hesitantly on the door. "Thomas?"

"Yes?" he groans.

"I brought you some lunch," she says, entering with a tray of bread, cheeses and meats. Thomas props himself up and rest it on his lap, picking at the soft bread with his fingers.

His mother linger beside the bed before perching beside him. Thomas looks up as she begins to speak.

"Thomas, you're going out this evening for dinner."

"No I'm not," he spat rudely.

"The Newtons have invited you for food and I have accepted on your behalf."

"Mother!" he scoffs. "You know I'm not well, I can't go to another ball." Ever again, he thinks.

"This is not a ball, you have been personally invited to dinner with them."

"I don't even know them, why should then invite me?"

"God only knows, Thomas, if you're this ungrateful. But you will not embarrass me or your father and you are perfectly well enough to go. You need to be ready to leave by six o'clock."

Before Thomas can protest again, she leaves and he is left furious. He bashes his skull against the headboard in rage.

Still, his mother's word is final and four hours later he is straightening his hair and picking at the cuffs of his formalwear. He stumbles downstairs to glare at his mother who cooes over how cute he looks. The coach is waiting for him outside already and by the time it pulls up outside the Newton manor, he stomach is writhing. He is never good at social situations with adults, let alone a posh couple that he has never even met. He knocks on the door and seconds later a stern man opens the door. "Ah, you must be the dinner guest," the butler remarks as he scans Thomas disdainfully. "Please, do come in," he invited bitterly. Thomas sheepishly entered the hall.

"Good evening, you must be Thomas!" greets a frail-looking woman with golden hair who beams at him as he enters. "We've heard all about you! I'm Lady Newton but you can call me Celia."

"Good evening," Thomas smiles as she warmly shakes his hand.

"Ah, Celia is the boy here?" a tubby gentleman calls in a booming voice as he enters the hall.

"Yes, darling," she grins.

"It's fantastic to meet you, my boy," Lord Newton grins as he shakes my hand firmly.

"You too, Sir," Thomas replies, an edge of confusion to his voice.

"Isaac!" Celia calls. "Isaac! Where is that boy?"

Lord Newton sighs before a figure appears shyly at the top of the staircase. He skin glows softly in the fading sunlight that cascades through the window to glint off the smooth metal that continues to conceal half of his face.

Newt.

He trots down the stair and grins at the shocked Thomas. "You came!" he smiles with an element of surprise. Thomas only stutters in response.

"Why don't you boys go play?” Newt’s mother asked.

"I'm not twelve, mother," Newt smiles and starts to head to a nearby room. Seeing that Thomas is not following him, he grabs Thomas' hand in his own and drags him behind into a room that appears to be a library. The door shuts behind them.

They were alone.

 


	7. Chapter 7

"I need to go."

A moment of silence. Despite his words Thomas is frozen on the spot. He knows that is he leaves now then Newt's parents would see him. He would be left with a mind full of unanswered questions and a sickening dread in his stomach. He knows that if he leaves now, he will never come back.

"Don't," Newt begged, exposed eye pleading. "Please?"

Thomas is nodding and he doesn't even know why. Newt smiles and leans back onto a plush loveseat in the centre of the room. He gazes at Thomas who shuffles awkwardly.

"I'd forgotten how beautiful you are," Newt remarks shyly, turning his face away from him.

"Same," Thomas replies without thinking, a blush rising onto his cheeks.

Newt turns back and smiles, then pats the seat beside him in a gesture of asking Thomas to sit down. He takes him up on the offer without thinking.

At this close a distance, Thomas notes that the mask is not as perfect as before; the nonsense words a warped by scratches and the eye that was once flawlessly smooth is cracked. Thomas instantly feels guilty for his rage, for throwing it off the balcony.

"You're still wearing the mask?" Thomas notes in such a way that it it more of a saddening question.

"I have to," Newt ponders, choosing his words carefully.

"Why?" Thomas blurts before he can stop himself.

"You wouldn't understand," he evades the question.

"I'm not just a pretty face, you know," Thomas snaps. "And I have no reason to trust you. If you don't tell me now then I will leave and you never have to see me again so it-"

"No!" Newt protested. "No, I'll tell you. I'm...my face is...is ugly. Hideous. All I wanted to do was meet someone who wouldn't judge me or feel sorry for me."

Newt is visibly shaking so Thomas rests his hand on his to sooth him. "Can I see?"

Newt's visible eye widened and he retracted his hand. "No!"

"Why?"

"Because you won't...you won't like me anymore..."

Thomas wants to say that he would love him no matter what but the words glued in his throat. He says simply, "I will."

Newt smiles sadly and strokes Thomas' cheek. "You're so innocent."

"Oi! I can't be much younger than you!" he protests.

Newt raises his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay."

They settled into an uncomfortable silence.

"Why did you lie to me?" Thomas asks suddenly.

"About what?"

"Everything," Thomas snaps. "Your name for example. Isaac."

"Please don't call me that, I hate the name. Only use it in front of my parents. I prefer Newt..." he hesitated. "Also, before I knew you, I thought that if you knew who I was with all the power and money and shit then you might only like me for that. Or you might hate me for it."

"You know I wouldn't do that!"

"I didn't then," Newt enforces before softening. "I know what you're like now, though. You're not like other boys I've met."

"In what way?" Thomas asks, a fluttering spreading through his stomach.

"You're kind, you care about people, you're sensitive and you don't hide. I feel so bad about what I did to you, Tommy, I'm so sorry," Newt gushes, close to tears.

"It was my fault," Thomas lies.

"That's not true, it was me!" Newt counters. "Also the alcohol..."

"It's forgotten, okay?" 

"Yeah, sure." Newt suddenly reaches and replaces his hand on Thomas'. "I do like you though. That wasn't just the alcohol."

"You drink a lot?" Thomas asks as he sinks beside him and relaxes against his arm.

Newt nods, a guilty smirk on his face. "When I get lonely...which is unsurprisingly often."

"What do you mean?" Thomas says, moving his head from leaning against Newt's to lock eyes with him.

Newts smirks. "You mean you haven't noticed? I'm not exactly likeable...and the whole face thing doesn't help either. That's one of the reasons we moved to America. A fresh start and all."

"Well, I'm not exactly popular either," Thomas retorts. "I have literally three friends my age and one of them is sitting with me right now."

Newt giggles. Actually giggles. It's a sound Thomas expects to hear from a young girl not and almost-man half a head taller than him. "Are we friends then?"

"If that's what you want."

"My parents certainly want it! I've never seen them so pleased to have guests since we had a visit from royalty," Newt laughs.

"They did seem pleased to see me," Thomas notes, leaning in slightly and resting against Newt's shoulder. "As did you," he flirts.

Newt's face suddenly turns serious as he twists towards Thomas. Their noses are almost touching and he can see his shattered reflection in the dark glass. "We could...we could more than friends. If you'd like," Newt stutter and Thomas could see his eye filled with genuine fear. He froze whilst contemplating his answer. 

"Yes..." Thomas hesitates, "...I would like that very much." Newt fills with hope, suddenly awash with childish excitement. "But I won't kiss you with the mask on."  
Newt tears himself from their half embrace to pace to the window. He stares out into the fading light. 

"I'm sorry," Thomas says as he follows him.

"It's okay," he mumbles as he glares his own reflection in the glass. "I just need to think of something."

Thomas doesn't reply but instead takes a deep breath and approaches Newt from behind. Gently, as if he was as fragile as glass, Thomas embraces Newt from behind, wrapping his arms round his waste and resting his chin on his should. Newt relaxes into Thomas' arms and they remain silent for a minute or two, revelling in the feeling of being wanted.

"I missed you, Tommy."

Thomas wants to reply, to tell him how he couldn't function all week and that he missed him more than he could cope with but he was stopped by a knock on the door.

Thomas jumped away from his embrace with Newt like a burn as the rat-faced butler from earlier peered around the door. 

"I wish to inform the young masters that dinner is about to be served," he spits.

"Thank you, Jenson," Newt smiles. Thomas' cheeks stain dark at the thought of nearly being caught and he grins sheepishly at Newt.

Both boys still beaming, they make their way to the dining room.

Thomas doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. Perhaps the numbers of people distracted from the true scale of the place on his last visit. The dining room is a spacious, high-ceilinged room from which hung a excessive crystal chandelier. The walls are hung with huge paintings and the table that dominates the room is dark, richly wooden. Even the cutlery on the table was excessive; at set of three of each ornate knife, fork, spoon per person. When Thomas sits down, he is served by a footman.

Conversation over the table is dull but palatable. He listens to them twitter amongst them selves before Newt's mother turns to him to interrogate him.  
He tells them about his family, his education, his plans for the future and is pleasantly surprised to see that they do not care at all that his family is not nearly as wealthy.

Throughout this, Newt is smirking across the table at Thomas. He taps his feet against his, toes of their shoes colliding gently in a way that is both flirtatious and infuriating.

The food was, of course, divine but by the end of the meal he is wolfing down his plate. He can't wait to be alone again with Newt when he pulling those irrisistable smirks at him from across the table. After he has all but licked the pudding plate clean, Newt simpers at his mother. "Please may I take Thomas to my room for a time?"

"Of course, Isaac," she accepts before glancing at the large clock in the corner of the room. "But I'm afraid Thomas is being collected in half an hour so you won't have much time."

Newt shrugs and excuses them from the table. As soon as they leave the room he reaches down and entwined their fingers before trotting up the vast marble staircase, dragging Thomas behind him. Newt is laughing like an excited child again.

"Wow, this is...impressive," Thomas remarks and realises that it was an understatement. Newt's bedroom is immense, a set a huge windows and balcony lining one wall, a four poster bed draped in heavy embroidery on the opposite. Bookcases line a further wall and the forth leads to an attached bathroom. Thomas notes the tiny details like the plush animal hidden near the corner of the bedside table, the wire-rimmed spectacles left ajar on top. The tips of socks peek over doors and material is caught it the hinge to the wardrobe. It feels impressive and yet not-daunting. Newt occupies the space comfortably.

Thomas hears a high pitched squeak from behind. His muscles tense in shock so much that Newt laughs again. When Thomas looks round he realises that somehow he has failed to notice the bird-stand in the corner of the room. A large wooden cage is left open beside the ornate stand on which is perched a bird.  
It opens its beak in a grin at Newt's laugh and flutters across the space between them to perch on his outstretched arm.

"This is Rosalie," he grins, gently stroking the bird's head with his finger. "I'm not sure she's too pleased to see you."

Newt is right. The small bird, about the size of an outstretched hand, is calmed by his touch but its large pink eyes pierce through Thomas like needles. The beautiful creature's pure white plumage is shadowed with grey as its feathers ruffle in alarm.

Newt smiles fondly and steps closer but Thomas looks wary. "It's okay, Tommy, you should see the fuss she makes when the maid comes up to clean. Here, come stroke her." 

Thomas steps forward but as soon as his arm is raised the bird hops along Newt's arm to the safety of his shoulder. She rubs her body against the mask before experimentally pecking at the eyepiece. Newt hastily moves her to the other shoulder where the pretty bird proceeds to nuzzle into his neck and preen his hair affectionately.

"You have a bird," Thomas states rather blandly for want of more eloquent words.

"She's a lovebird, somewhat ironically," Newt smirks. "She doesn't have a mate, I don't have a mate, we are lonely souls seeking each others hearts."

Newt sits down on the bed and, after a moments hesitation, Thomas joins him on the bird side. Slowly he reaches up to pet Rosalie. He raises his hand and the bird freezes but does not fling away as he pets her head gently with his fingertip.

"She's beautiful," Thomas says as the bird begins to lean in to his touch.

"Isn't she just?" Newt beams. "You know, I never wanted a bird. I was nine and I desperately wanted a lapdog; you know, like all the fashionable women have. My father said it would be too effeminate but eventually we agreed on a bird instead. When I chose her he moaned for hours because she's albino and how I shouldn't choose the sickly ones but I thought she's the prettiest. Far nicer than those squawking birds with their bright greens and oranges and reds."

"She likes you a lot," Thomas notes, still stroking her.

"I'm her whole world," Newt falters in his smile. "And until recently she was all of mine."  
Newt stands up suddenly and takes the bird back to the cage. Rosalie reluctantly hops off his shoulder but stays where she is put.

"I've been thinking," Newt says as he turns to face Thomas. His eyes look hungry. 

"Yeah?"

"About us," Newt confirms. "It   
was just that...maybe if I took my mask off I could still kiss you if...if you were wearing a blindfold?"

Thomas' eyes widen. Whatever he was expecting, it isn't that. For some reason a coil of arousal truest in his stomach at the idea. He goes with his gut instinct.

"Yeah, okay, I'll try it," Thomas confirms and Newt snaps his head round to face him so that he could see the embarrassed  stains high on Newt's cheeks at the request.

"Really?"

"I want to kiss you, Newt."  
Newt's mouth is agape with surprise. His blush deepens.

"I'll...I'll go get a blindfold then..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it! Please comment any feedback so I don't feel lonely...Thanks for reading so far!


	8. Chapter 8

Thomas waits on the edge of the bed, his knee shaking so much with nerves that it taps on the floor. He feels sick and excited and scared out of his mind as he watches Newt search through his wardrobe painfully slowly. He has already pulled out three garments before discarding them in disgust and Thomas is getting impatient.

"This will have to do," Newt sighs and draws a length of material from the wardrobe. It's the belt from a silk dressing gown. Newt sits beside Thomas, apprehension evident in his expression. "Are you sure you want to do this? You honestly don't have to...I mean I-"

"I do," Thomas confirms before looking at the makeshift blindfold warily. "Could you..?" he makes a gesture of tying it round his head.

Newt grins sheepishly. "Of course."

He spreads the belt in his hands before reaching over and Thomas' world goes black. He can feel the quality material resting conformably against the bridge of his nose and the silk brushes his eyelashes. He can feel Newt tying the knot behind his head.

"I'm going to say this now, Tommy, if you take off that blindfold without my permission then you are leaving and you shall never see me again," Newt warns. Thomas swallows at his tone and nods. "Okay, I'm taking my mask off now."

Thomas can see nothing but the shapes his mind dances in the dark to amuse him. He tries to relax and not to listen the the soft rustle of Newt's formalwear as he moves or the gentle clink of the metal mask as it is placed on smooth wood. He does, however, try to notice when the mattress dips slightly to his side when Newt perches beside him.

"Thomas...face me," Newt commands calmly and he follows the instructions. "I'm going to kiss you now."

Thomas intakes breath with anticipation as he felt Newt's cool hand touch his cheek. This hand gently guides his head until he felt the unmistakable sensation of lips pressed against his own.

Thomas, helpless from loss of eyesight and a lack of experience, mimics Newt. Pressed close, Newt opens his mouth into the kiss and so does Thomas. Newt's fingers tangle into his hair for leverage and so Thomas does likewise in his silken waves. Newt hesitantly touches the inside of Thomas' mouth so Thomas returns the favour.

It is Newt to first pull away, panting heavily and giggling under his breath. They rest their foreheads together while they get their breath back. 

Newt locks their lips again but is more forceful this time. Thomas squirms as Newt licks the inside of his mouth and moves a hand from his neck to his waist. Thomas decides to be brave and, despite being temporarily blind, manages to locate the hem of Newt's shirt. Slowly, as if not to offend him, he skates his hand over the smooth skin of Newt's stomach. Newt flinches slightly as Thomas' cold hands make contact with smooth flesh but he made no move to draw back. He squirms, arousal coiling in his stomach, as Thomas' hands roam higher. When a fingertip brushes a sensitive nipple, he actually groans into the deep kiss.

When Newt breaks the kiss, Thomas feels alone, disorientated by the dark. His mouth opens to call out for him but he is stopped by slender arms wrapping around his body, soon followed by lips. This time, however, those talented lips are pressed to the delicate skin of his neck. Thomas gasps as Newt sucks and bites at the sensitive flesh. He closes his eyes despite his lack of sight, mutters "Fuck." under his breath and loses himself into pleasure.

He hears a laugh. "You liked that, didn't you?" Newt says.

"Huh?"

Newt giggles. "You were moaning...quite a lot."

"Oh?" Thomas acknowledges and a blush comes to his cheek so strongly that even in the dim lighting, Newt can see it clearly. "I didn't notice."

"I can tell," Newt laughs, so close to Thomas' face that he can feel the breath ghosting over his cheek. 

Newt presses kisses along Thomas' jawline, making him squirm until finally their lips met again. This time it was Newt who lets his hands wander whilst Thomas twists his fingers into his hair. Newt holds his bare waist underneath his shirt and smooths his thumb across the skin repeatedly, turning Thomas into a flustered mess. He writhes against Newt and moves his hand to stroke his cheek, to feel the smooth skin and sharp angles. He wants to do that but he can't for after the first brush of fingertip on cheek, Newt is gone. Not just not kissing gone but Thomas can feel his weight lifting off the bed. It feels like a lost tooth.

"Newt?" Thomas calls, thrashing his head from side to side, seeing nothing. "Newt, where are you?"

"Shh, Tommy, I'm here," his disembodied voice coos softly. Thomas is disorientated and the words surround him; he cannot picture where Newt is standing. 

"Come back..." Thomas whispers desperately. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, I'm sorry," Newt mutters. "I just go scared when you touched my face that you might...nevermind..."

"Oh God, I forgot!" Thomas says. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. Please come back," he whines desperately.

He is met with a chaste kiss on the lips that lasts merely moments and then the contact is released. 

"I think maybe we should just lie together for a bit," suggests Newt.

"Yeah, sure," Thomas agrees reluctantly. He would much prefer making out but that would be alright, he supposes.

"Lie down on the bed, Tommy," Newt instructs. 

Thomas obeys and blindly fumbles his ways across the mattress until his head reaches plump pillows. He lays down on his back, legs twisting to the side. He feels another weight on the bed and breath shiver on his neck.

"Wrap your arms around me."

Thomas nods and does what he is told, pulling Newt's body close to his. He is curled like a child against Thomas' chest, cheek pressed against his heart, and it feels oddly intimate and yet unbelievably innocent. 

After a few minutes of this, although Thomas cannot tell that in his timeless, sightless void, he speaks up. "Have you ever done this before?"

"You mean blindfold someone?" Newt giggles. "Can't say I have."

"No I meant..." Thomas pauses, trying to find the words. "Have you ever been with a guy before?"  
   
There is silence and Thomas feels a shy nod against his chest. "Have you?"

"Never," Thomas confirms. "How many?"

"God knows. We lived in London, for most of my young life but I was always shut away, protected by high walls from the outside world. Sometimes I would sneak away and find a seedy area where no one would recognise me as status."

"When did you know that you like men?" Thomas interrupts. 

"Maybe four or five years ago, when I was about fourteen. How about you?"

"About a week ago," Thomas mumbles sheepishly. "Do your...your parents know?"

"Know what? That I like kissing boys?" he splutters. "Hell, my family were being extraordinarily nice to you today but normally they are the epitome of British manners; always talk about the weather, never talk about sex and hate the Welsh."

Thomas chuckles. "Good thing my family originated in Ireland, then."

Newt smiles and snuggles closer to his chest. There is a knock on the door.

Thomas' body goes rigid with fright. His hands snaps up to remove his blindfold, to relieve himself from his venerability but Newt is quick to slap his hand away. His weight leaves the mattress once more and Thomas scrambles to the edge of the bed. He can hear Newt's panicked breathing as he rips off the blindfold and stuff's it in Thomas' pocket, mask already in place. "You might need it," he whispers slyly and clears his throat. "What is it?" he calls to the door.

The door opens on command and the sour butler from before peers his head around. His eyes scan the room and all Thomas can think of is their ruffled hair and rumpled bedsheets. Did the blindfold leave a mark around his eyes? The butler's squinted glare would suggest so. 

"The coach is here for Master Thomas."

"Tell my parents we will be downstairs promptly," Newt smiles innocently.

"Certainly, Sir."

Once the door is closed, Newt turns to Thomas. "Sorry about that."

They hug tightly so that Thomas' chin might rest on Newt's shoulder. They pull away slightly and Thomas asks, "Will I see you again soon?"

"I'll make sure of it," Newt smirks, and Thomas pecks him on his non-masked cheek. 

"You're amazing," he grins as they head out the door.

Downstairs Newt's parents grin at him fondly and say that he must come again, they're so glad Newt has made friends with him, what a polite young man he is. Newt remains silent but he grins when Thomas shakes his hand in polite farewell, the subtly of the affection in the gesture screaming louder than any false goodbye. He smiles and says one word that holds a thousand promises at the tip of a tongue.

"Soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to do some deep character development but ended up writing a fluffy make out scene...no regrets....


	9. Chapter 9

The first soon feels like an eternity to Thomas. The years stretch before him between one day and the next but only a week later he is invited around the Newton household for dinner once again.

The second soon comes in no time at all, merely afternoons and they are together again.

The third, forth, fifth soons pass in much the same haze of polite smiles, blind kissing and dizzy talk of past lives and planned futures. Only when they meet after the sixth soon is worth noting.

A tired afternoon. It's maybe five weeks since Thomas and Newt first kissed, six since the ball. The air is so heavy with water that rain is inevitable and yet it does not seem to fall. The storm the night before was glorious and marked the end of the first heatwave of summer. Now the sun is watery through the clouds, drained from the week of sunshine and quite ready to set for the day, only the ever lengthening days continue to keep it suspended in the sky. 

This is the sort of day spent restlessly pacing, wasting the hours on reading and wishing for night. Not for Thomas and Newt.

They sit in the watery haze of light cast by the large bay windows across Newt's room. They had discovered a few weeks ago that Newt's large window seat provided a perfect kissing spot, pausing only occasionally to look at the splendid view of the garden and praying that Newt's parents wouldn't happen to walk past.

At the moment in question, Thomas is leant, blindfolded, back pressed against the window and chin tilted upward. Newt is straddling him and admiring the beautiful boy below, helpless and baring his throat to Newt's skilled mouth. Tomorrow will be another day of high collared shirts to hide the obvious signs of possession Newt liked to litter affectionately on his neck and collarbone. Perhaps other places too, if Thomas would let him. And at this point Newt doubts that Thomas would have the power to resist as he is currently writhing in his grasp and occasionally rutting up against Newt in pleasure.

Newt decides to go for it. Thomas can tell the instant he makes the decision, the subtle changes that he can't see but can feel just as easily. He knew the time would come when Newt would try this kind of thing with him; he is older and clearly more experienced than Thomas. He had thought he might enjoy it, was looking forward to it even; after all, every fresh kissing session made him flustered and aroused with new fantasies to explore in the privacy of his bedroom back at home. But it doesn't feel right.

Thomas' gut twists with something other than arousal when Newt begins to kiss him on the mouth and gently slides his hand to rest on his upper thigh. The muscles there tense and he begins to run his fingers up and down the top of his leg, dangerously close to his crotch. It feels, physically, amazing. Newt is clearly skilled at this kind of thing. But to Thomas, something feels intensely wrong and he cannot ignore it. 

Newt dares to caress the tented material of Thomas' crotch and that is enough. It takes all of his will power for Thomas to slap the hand away and forcefully break the kiss. Newt sits up and Thomas presses himself more up against the glass window. 

"Tommy, what's wrong?" Newt asks, his voice trying and failing to conceal his hurt. "I'm sorry I thought that you wanted-"

"Newt, put your mask on," Thomas commands bluntly.

"What? No, why?" Newt struggles as he remains tense on Thomas' lap. 

Thomas doesn't like hearing the pain in Newt's voice but if firm in his resolve. "You're going to put your mask on and I'm going to take my blindfold off. We need to talk." 

"Please no," Newt begs, his voice saturated with genuine fear. "Can't we just talk now? Like this?"

"If you don't put your mask back on I'm just going to take off my blindfold and I know you don't want that to happen."

Newt lifts his weight from Thomas' lap and scuttles away from him. "I'm not putting that mask back on."

"Fine," Thomas snaps. He scrambles his finger until he can hook them underneath the silken material and rip the blindfold off hi face. But, bottling out at the last second, he twists so he is kneeling on the window seat staring at the view, Newt behind him.

"Tommy, what are you doing?" Newt asked warily.

"I can't..." he chokes and gesture between them. "I can't do this anymore."

Newt sighs but does not sound as wounded next time he speaks. "I knew this point would come. I've been waiting for you to snap." 

"Can you put your mask on so we can talk properly?" 

"No."

"But then..." 

"Turn around, Tommy," Newt pleads, his voice low. When Thomas does not react, he clears his throat. "I said, turn around. Please. I want you to see me."

"Are you sure?" Thomas asks, suddenly sick with nerves. He honestly doesn't know what to expect.

"I trust you, Tommy," is all the answer Thomas needs.

Curiosity wins out. He whips he head round, followed by his body to stare at the boy a few paces in from of him. He stands with his eyes closed and looks...normal. Well, not normal, beautiful; his face seemingly perfectly symmetrical. And the he opens his eyes.

For some reason Thomas is instantly drawn to the familiar side of Newt's face; gazing into the warm brown eye that is so intimate to him but perhaps more glazed than usual, moist with an emotion resembling fear. Then Thomas dares to drag his eyes to the unknown side of Newt's visage, one that has been long hidden from him behind a metal veil and silken blindfold. 

The eye. Thomas hates to admit that the hairs prickled down his spine and his stomach churned unhelpfully at the sight. The eye looked perfectly normal save the pupil which is clouded an astonishing shade of milk blue; a smudged painting where some of the sky swirls in the clean White cloud. The stark contrast of the dark brown iris makes the pupil look even more unnervingly out of place. It was its own kind of messed up beauty; like an albino fox that is both elegant and helpless to survive in the wild.

Thomas takes a step forward, fascinated in a scared way. Newt flinch and turned away; he could see him physically shaking with nerves. He takes another step and cups Newt's face gently in a warm hand. He tilts Newt's head towards him.

"What is it?" Thomas asks softly. He can tell it is a sensitive topic.

Newt smiles but Thomas can see the tears glisten in both eyes as he answered. "It's cataracts. I was born with it; nothing could be done."

"But..." Thomas dares to run his thumb along the strangely rippled skin underneath his eye. "...can you...can you see anything?"

He feels Newt sigh in his arms. "Out of that eye? My lens is clouded over, Tommy, what do you think?" Newt breaks their half embrace to stumble across to the bed, head in hands. "I'm over half blind, Tommy, I'm a bloody cripple."

Thomas is terrified. There, he admits it, he is scared out of his mind. But he knows that he must be strong for Newt, to feign being unfazed at whatever the hell is going on. He silently walks over the the bed and kneels in front of where Newt is sitting.

This close and in this light Thomas notices something else that explains the mysterious texture of Newt's skin. The right side of his face, the side he had ne'er seen before, is almost covered in a lacework of scars. Small cuts and taunt white as well as shiny patches that appear burnt.

"Your face..." Thomas begins. "The scars, I mean. Did they come with the cataracts as well?"

Newt brushed his hand over his face and for a second Thomas feels like he's said the wrong thing. Instead, he smiled warily. "No, they came from being a half-blind child." Thomas stares, confused. "When you only have one eye you have no depth perception. I spent most of my childhood and a few of my teenage years being fixed up after tripping over or walking into something or getting burnt. My body's a wreck."

"No, you're...beautiful," Thomas sighs and he knows that it is true from his heart. Newt just laughs bitterly. "Is that why you limp?" he dares to ask. He had noticed it countless times before but Newt carries it so well that it was barely perceivable.

"You saw that?" Newt ponders. "No, my limp is a story for another day."

Thomas sighs away his disappointment at not being trusted. "Why did you not want me to see? It doesn't change how I feel about you, not one bit."

"Because it's hideous!" Newt protests. "Look at me, Tommy. Look at me honestly and tell me that you wouldn't cross the street to avoid me. Or feel uncomfortable socialising with me. Or be disgusted that you kissed me."

Thomas looks Newt square in the eyes, both the seeing and blind. He look at the boy that he has kissed and laughed with and screamed at and cried over. And he says the word, "Never."

Newt dismisses him coldly. "You don't mean that."

"Why wouldn't I?" Thomas snaps. Feeling that the harshness of his words may have upset Newt, Thomas sits down beside him and takes him into his arms. "I don't feel any differently about you now than I did an hour ago. If anything, I like you more for being so open with me."

"Really?" Newt asks, genuine confusion furrowing his brow.

"I'm certain. Why are you so insecure about it?"

He smiles but it is clearly a smile saturated with painful memories. "That, Tommy, is a story for another day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been keeping this a secret for too long! Just a short One this time but I promise the next one will be super fluffy and maybe a lil bit of smut...  
> Anyway thanks for reading so far and please comment your thoughts on the reveal!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will warn you now, there is smut ahead...

M9

About a week later, Thomas visits the house again. The day is beautiful, so bright that he has to shield his eyes from the intense glare as he exits the carriage. He smiles as he spies Newt posing on the doorstep, head tilted backwards and legs outstretched. He is as smartly dressed as usual except that the oppressive heat has rid him of his jacket so instead he is sat with just a waistcoat and billowing shirt. He has his eyes closed but is smiling gleefully in the sunshine, knowing he looks radiant and knowing of Thomas' approach.

Instead of giving him the smug satisfaction of admitting his beauty, Thomas looks down at him in mock distain. "What the hell you doing sitting on the doorstep?"

Newt giggles slightly and opens his eyes, jarring Thomas once again with his affliction. "I thought..." he teases, standing up and noticing the carriages departure. He grabs Thomas' arms and pulls him closer. "That since it is such a glorious day...we might go for a picnic?"

Only now does Thomas spot the wicker basket beside Newt on the steps, presumably filled with food and covered with a thick blanket. Newt grins at him with childish excitement, luring Thomas towards him. "Of course, I would love to," Thomas agrees. "Where are we going?"

Newt makes a show of looking around him. "In case you haven't noticed, our gardens are rather extensive. I know some places that are nice. And we definitely won't be disturbed," he flirts.

"Sounds tempting," Thomas replies eagerly. "Lead the way, Master Newton."

All Thomas gets in response is a glare swiftly followed by a sigh and they begin the walk. Newt directs him through the highly manicured gardens, preened to perfection with stone benches and neat hedges. It slowly merges into a treelike equivalent of a small forest. The ground here is much more wild, stinging nettles and ferns leaving only narrow pathways to travel by between the dense trees. They chat idly as they walk, arms casually brushing against one another, finding any excuse for a subtle connection between them. Newt is mostly nimble as he walks but on occasion he trips on concealed roots or slight holes. By the fourth stumble Newt's voice catches and he looks close to tears as he rights himself. 

"Newt? What's wrong?"  Thomas asks and tugs on his arm to slow him down.

Newt rubs at his eyes fiercely with the heels of him hands. "I'm fine."

"You are quite clearly not and don't you dare deny it. No more secrets, remember?"

"Well, I'm nearly blind is the main issue," he mutters bitterly.

"Well...only half-blind," Thomas tries to console.

Newt chuckles but the notes our sour. "Oh, Tommy with your relentless optimism," he smiles and leans against the nearest tree. "You forget; I said I'm over half-blind. And it's getting worse."

"What? The cataracts?"

"No, that eye is well past salvage. But the other one...I've just got regular bad eyesight. It wouldn't bother me too much as I can wear spectacles and whatever...except that it's getting worse. Would you still love me in two or three years, Tommy, when I can no longer picture your beauty?"

"Of course."

"How about in ten when all you are is a blur and I have to feel my way through the world? Would you still-"

Newt is cut off by a firm kiss planted on his lips. Thomas pushes him against the tree and kisses him with a forceful passion, hands tangled deeps in his hair. They fall into the rhythm of lips and tongues and hands feverishly gripping at each other's hair, neck, waist. Thomas eventually breaks the kiss and they smile, eyes locked and foreheads pressed together, so close that Newt fills Thomas' eyes and all he can see is pale skin, brown eyes, blond hair. 

"Does that answer your question?" Thomas laughs.

"For now," Newt smiles coyly. He grabs Thomas' hand and drags him by it to continue their walk. It may be an illusion of confidence but he thinks that Newt stumbles less on the part of the journey, his steps surefooted and light.

The trees break into a meadow. The grass is long, unlike the highly groomed gardens, so that it brushes the boys' ankles as they continue forward up a slight incline. Smattered underneath are wild flowers, sprigs of white, purple, red peeking from between the thick blades of grass. What at first had appeared to Thomas to be a clearing turns out to be a large open space, from which he can see all the surrounding farmland and Newt's house peering over the tops of the trees. At the top of the slight hill is a twisted tree, so gnarled with age that it appears to be made of rough, undulating bark that has wrinkled in the passage of time. It shades only the area directly below in the midday sun, the ground underneath cracked and bare, drawing with nests of busy ants. 

Down the hill a short way from this tree is a small lake, perhaps only just big enough to be classified as such. To the extreme right of the surprisingly clear water is a small jetty, rotten with time. There is no boat.

Newt stops Thomas about half way between this lake and this tree. This is where they shall picnic.

Newt carefully sets down the basket and begins to spread the blanket. He unloads a series of small boxes, each smelling equally as delicious.

"Where did you get all this food?" Thomas wonders aloud. 

"I stole it from the kitchens, of course. My parents are away at a friend's for the whole weekend so it wasn't difficult."

Out of curiosity, and hunger, Thomas opens a box which turns out to be filled with tiny pastries. They smell divine.

"Did your cook make these? They look so good."

Newt blushes slightly in the sunlight. "No, she's away this weekend. It was actually me, would you believe it."

"Seriously?" Thomas asks, opening another box of delicious looking food. "Where and when did you learn to cook like this?"

Newt shrinks to crossed legs on the grass, the smile on his face innocent and yet strangely sad. "I was a lonely child. My parents would've sent me to school if it weren't for the whole half-blindness thing. It set me apart from the other boys, it was too dangerous to let me play in their games even if they would let me. I was home most of the time and without anyone else for company I grew close to our servants," he smiles fondly. "The cook was a lovely woman. Lynette. She was quite old but was more of a mother to me than my own blood. When I was really little she would let me stand by her side as she made the food and when I grew older, I was allowed to help. My parents didn't approve, of course, but there was no way they could stop me."

Newt all the while takes out plates and gestures for Thomas to help himself to the food. 

"What were the others like?" Thomas ponders as he begins to take food from the containers. Newt doesn't answer, clearly confused. "The other servants."

"Oh, right," Newt says. "Umm...there was Drew the butler. He was nice, but a little scary. He never played with me because he was always too busy sorting out the house, arranging things and the like. We had a few scullery maids over the years but, as it tends to be with them, they all seemed rather distant and shy. My mother's maid...her name was Hilda. She was a great woman, genuine and funny and smart. My mother wasn't too fond of her. She couldn't, however, bring herself to sack her and Hilda never took her less than subtle hints that she should consider another place of employment. There were others of course..." Newt trails off.

"Who?" Thomas asks. "I can tell you want to say something. There's something you're not sharing with me."

"Very perceptive, Tommy," Newt chuckles.

"No secrets," Thomas reminds.

"All in good time, my friend," Newt smiles at Thomas' childlike impatience. "I was fourteen when my parents decided a needed my own valet. I was perfectly capable of dressing myself but that's not what upperclassmen do apparently. And besides, more than anything I was starved of any friendship with boys my own age. His name was Oscar..."

"You fell in love with him, didn't you?" Thomas interrupts, cheeks flaring unknowingly from jealousy.

"Am I really that predictable?" Newt sighs. "He was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen that far in my life: of course I bloody fell in love with him. I thought he was the most perfect being in the universe."

"What was he like?"

"Gorgeous. Although when I imagine how he looked now I feel so disorientated as to why I found him attractive. He was just an awkward fifteen year old but then again I was so young at the time. He had stunning blue-green eyes and for about a year they were all I could see. My whole world stood by bed and watched me dress in the mornings, brought me tea when I was cold, medicine when I was in pain. We were friends, of course, as my parents had planned but...he knew his place. It had clearly been drilled into him from a young age that he was not worth the dust on my family's boots."

Newt's eyes glaze over and it seemed as if he has drifted back into memories. Thomas can tell instinctively that this story doesn't end well.

"What happened?" 

"I was just fifteen...I was stupid, naive, I didn't think about consequences. What do you think I did?" Newt snaps but continues before he can speak up. "I was an idiot. I fucking told him that I was in love with him."

Newt eyes are now hardened with anger, no chance of tears. Thomas braves to ask, "What did he say?"

"Oscar? He well..." Newt trails off. "People like me- like us...in England we're not well accepted. Shunned, considered freaks. Oscar did what society had trained him to do; flee. His beautiful eyes were filled with terror and he shrunk away, ran away. He took his final paycheck and left without a word. My parents...they were not happy."

"What did they do?" Thomas presses further. 

"That is not yet relevant, I feel," Newt smiles, chewing on another mouthful of food. "Anyway, I know so little about you! It seems unfair I get all the attention."

"Well, I'm not that interesting. What do you want to know?"

"Anything," Newt grins. When Thomas does not reply, he hints, "What about your friends? At the ball there was girl and a boy who looked after you."

"Ah, yes. Teresa and Minho. They are my best friends, I suppose," he says.

"Teresa...she is very pretty. Have you ever..?" Newt leaves the implication hanging in the air.

"No way! I've known her all my life, it would be like having sex with my sister," Thomas riles in disgust.

"You have a sister?"

"No...but that's not the point!," Thomas protests.

Newt chuckles. "What about the boy- Minho?"

"What about him?" Thomas asks, suspicious.

Newt smiles coyly. "He seemed pretty cute. Have you ever thought about you and him getting together?"

"No," Thomas snaps but he knows it is a lie. The deep blush forming on his cheeks gives it away.

"Aww, you have!" Newt giggles and leans in closer to whisper. "Have you ever got off to the thought of him?" Thomas shrinks further in embarrassment and he smiles, knowing he has him pinned in a corner. "Do you imagine kissing his sweet lips? What about cupping his toned arse with your hands, fingering the smooth muscles? Does that-"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," Thomas protests childishly. He has to admit, though, that Newt saying these words was beginning to turn him on.

"What about his mouth around you cock?"

"Stop it!" Thomas squeals, face impossibly reddening further. 

"Oh, you loved that idea," Newt teases delightedly . "Are you getting turned on, Tommy? Perhaps I should be making notes..."

Thomas finally shuts Newt with a firm kiss that then unintentionally deepens into something passionate. The main reason he thinks that he's dreading pulling away is the smug look he knows will be plastered on Newt's face when they part.

Newts smirks, as predicted, but then promptly bolts to his feet. "Let's go swimming!"

"You what?" Thomas says.

"There's a lake just there, we're alone, it's bloody hot and..." Newts trails off.

"And?" Thomas prompts.

"And I wouldn't exactly mind seeing you with a few less clothes on," Newt grins sheepishly and instantly strips off his waistcoat, throwing it haphazardly beside where Thomas reclines below him. He continues in unbuttoning his shirt. "You gonna join in too?"

"I perfectly happy just like this for the moment," Thomas smiles and leans back on his elbows, basking in the sun and his view of Newt. He isn't subtle in his obvious attempts to stimulate a reaction out of Thomas; tossing his head as he removes his shirt, baring his smooth torso. He smirks as he drops the garment beside Thomas and, after a swift shoe removal, begins to work on his trousers. 

It's working goddamn it, Thomas thinks, feeling himself grow hard in his suddenly too tight trousers. It's hardly fair, Newt showing his skin like that, stripping right in front of him. It's a natural reaction, he convinces himself stubbornly as he tries to subtly shift to hide the rather obviously bulge on his crotch. 

It isn't subtle enough. Newt catches his eye as he finishes the process of stripping to underwear and smirks unbearably. He sinks to his knees predatorily over Thomas, all golden limbs and wiry muscle. 

"Getting a little excited, are we Tommy?" he grins over him before donating a chaste kiss on the lips. "Strip off and join me when you finally stop blushing," he adds with a wink and bounds to his feet already heading to the lake.

He is right, Thomas feels his cheeks aflame as he desperately tries to calm himself. Meanwhile, a beautiful boy slips gracefully into the water below. 

Eventually Thomas plucks up the courage to peep his clothes away from sticky skin, neatly folding them in a pile to distract himself from his exposure.  Slowly, he turns and makes his way down the hill to where Newt is now stationary in the water, eyes trained on Thomas.

"God, you're gorgeous," Newt groans as Thomas approaches the water's edge in nothing but his underwear. Newt scans his heavy muscles and pale edges with the unnerving look of a lion before the final pounce. Uneasy but flattered, Thomas dips his toe into the edge of the clear water.

"It's freezing!" he gasps.

"You've clearly never been to England," Newt grins and ducks back under the water.

Thomas bravely jumps into the waist high water, dipping completely under the icy water before rising again, shivering. Newt is already waiting for him, innocent grin smothering his face. It turns less child-like as he smirks and says, "Want me to warm you up?" with an added wink.

Thomas sighs at the remark but begs all the same. "Please do."

In a moment Newt's arms are wrapped around him, bare torsos pressed together. "With pleasure," he flirts.

Their hands explore newly exposed skin and they melt into a deep kiss. Thomas runs his fingers down the undulations in Newt's spine, thumbs the wiry muscles steadied taunt across his shoulders. Newt remains steadily caressing Thomas's cheek and jaw whilst the other hand skits across his stomach.

Suddenly all contact is gone. Thomas snaps his eyes open just in time to see the water rush towards him. Two hands firmly placed on his shoulders and back duck him into the freezing water, blinded and caught off guard. He kicks away furiously and rises to the surface spluttering.

"What the fuck was that for?" Thomas shouts as he sees Newt spasming in hysterical giggles.

"I thought we should at least do some actual swimming and pretend that the whole reason you agreed to this is because I am almost naked right now," Newt says once he had calmed down somewhat. "And I should wash that dirty mouth of yours out with carbolic soap, Tommy." He slinks closer in the water to where Thomas is still indignant. "Then again, I could think of better things to do with that mouth," he smirks and takes Thomas' mouth with his own once again.

When the kiss gets too heated, Newt pulls away again. "Swimming?"

"Oh yeah right," Thomas mumbles and uses Newt to push off across the lake.

He tries to show off, of course. He has discovered over the years that he has a powerful swimming stroke and, despite not having Minho's broad frame, could beat him in a race through a combination of power and skill. 

So he thrashed his way with ease to the other side of the lake and then turned back smugly to watch Newt follow behind him. The intent of his gaze was to gloat but instead he ends up staring at him in awe. Newt's swimming was not fast but the elegancy is something Thomas had only seen in fish; a smooth restless travel, slithering through the rippling water. Newt breathes only on occasion, preceding to spend the most of his time fully submerged in the crystal lake. When he reaches Thomas he smiles sweetly and it is as if he was a siren whose beauty was designed to tempt Thomas into drowning. He would jump off a hundred cliffs for that look on Newt's face.

They swim a few lengths companionably, stopping occasionally to gaze with longing at each other before once again submerging themselves into the silky water. Eventually, once they can contain themselves no longer, their lips join once again in a slippery kiss. 

Newt's hands feverishly grab at Thomas' back and shoulder, gliding over the smooth skin to feel the coiled muscles beneath. Thomas throws his head back in pleasure when Newt dips to bite and suck at his neck, kissing his way down his collarbone until he reaches his nipples. Newt smiles coyly up at him and then licks one testingly. Shivers are sent down Thomas' spine, a ripple of feeling cascading through his body. He can't help but moan when Newt latches onto a nipple and begins to nibble playfully.

In a bubble of euphoria, Thomas runs his hands down the spine of the bent-over Newt and daringly cups his still-clothed arse. Sensing what Thomas is hinting at, Newt wraps his legs round his waist and his arms around his neck, allowing Thomas to lift him and climb out of the water. The continue kissing in this embrace until they reach the picnic where they collapse on the grass.

Newt straddles Thomas and bends down to deepen their kiss, his hands knotting in the sodden fabric of his undergarments. Thomas moans into his mouth when he skits his hands across the front of the fabric, feeling his cock already hard beneath. Newt grins, pecks him once more on the mouth and then rolls off him to lay on the grass beside.

Thomas take this as his cue to straddle Newt but instead he is pushed away. "That's enough, Tommy!" Newt laughs.

"What? Seriously?" Thomas complains, slumping to lay on his side. "But what about...this?" he gestures to his crotch.

Newt smirks, "Patience, Tommy. We have all day," he winks.

Despite his apparent attitude Thomas can still see Newt's cock straining against his underwear. He blushes deep when Newt catches him staring. "Jesus, Newt. You and your self-control," he sighs.

"Yes, I have that...want to know what else I have?" Newt flirts.

"Yes?"

Newt reaches behind him to their abandoned picnic and holds out a box. "Strawberries!" he giggles.

Newt picks one out and, after thoroughly inspecting it for insects or bruising, holds it out for Thomas to eat. Thomas bites into the sweet flesh and swallows quickly, looking forward to taking the rest of the strawberry into his mouth as well as some of Newt's fingers. He deliberately takes his time licking the juice off each fingertip, almost making Newt feel guilty that he had chosen to stop their activities when he did.

As he picks up a strawberry and holds it out for Newt, Thomas asks, "How did you get so good at picnics, anyway? I thought you lived in a city."

"You miss the point, Tommy," Newt smiles and licks the strawberry juice from his lips. "I am English. We instinctively know how to picnic; it's in our blood. Us Londoners are famous for it- why do you think we have such grand parks if not to waste summer days on petty food and pretend sports that are the nature of the perfect picnic?"

"Eloquently put," Thomas comments.

 

They day passes for Thomas in a vague haze of sun and heat and good food and kissing. They spend it mostly in the soft grass by the lake and then, when it reaches evening, they go back to the house. Newt makes them both some dinner and they eat it companionably in the kitchen. They talk without saying anything important, loving the ease of being together. Of course, throughout the day there is also the underlying apprehension of what is to come that sets Thomas' stomach in knots.

"Wait here," Newt says softly in his ear as they enter the bedroom. "I'll only be a minute."

Thomas turns to stop Newt but he has already left him alone in the room, the large bed suddenly looking imposing. He begins to perch on the edge but the connotations overwhelm him so he settles for curling on the loveseat. He is grateful that Rosalie is asleep in the corner as he feels that he would buckle seeing those eyes judge him.

He's never had any kind of sex before. Not with a girl or a boy at least, just with his own hand and imagination as is customary for teenagers. Despite his boldness earlier, he does not think he can go through with this. 

Or maybe he can, he thinks as Newt reenters the room, glowing under the candlelight and carrying a glass bottle of some kind. He smiles and sits daintily on the loveseat beside Thomas. He offers him the bottle.

"Whiskey," Newt explains. "For the nerves."

Thomas remembers from before. "But it's disgusting!"

"Just drink a little bit," Newt laughs. "It'll make this easier, trust me."

Thomas does as instructed and swallows a mouthful of the bitter liquid before handing it back. The effect is instantaneous, a warmth spreading in his chest and slowing his erratic breathing. He smiles shyly at Newt from underneath thick eyelashes.

Newt reaches across and kisses him full on the mouth, with full force of passion. Feeling Thomas shrink away from him slightly, he becomes more gentle before finally pulling away. "Bloody he'll, Tommy. No need to be so scared, it's only me!" he soothes and covers Thomas' shaking hands with his own. "We don't have to do this if you don't want, you know that right?"

"I want to, I really do," Thomas confirms quietly. "It's just, it all feels a lot more real in here."

"You're so adorable," Newt grins and kisses him once again. This time, fuelled by his mouthful of whiskey, Thomas receives the kiss open mouthed and willing. He writhes when Newt moves to his neck, nibbling at the nape which sent the first shivers of heat to his groin. As he does this, Newt also begins to undo the buttons on the front of Thomas' shirt. When he reaches the last button he pushes the material apart with his hands to feel the soft skin of Thomas' chest. "Still scared?" Newt whispers as he feels the pulsing of Thomas' heart against his fingertips.

"I think my heart maybe beating that fast for other reasons," Thomas say flirtatiously causing Newt to raise an eyebrow. "Oh, hurry up and get back to kissing me."

"With pleasure," Newt smirks and locks their lips once more whilst simultaneously removing the rest of Thomas' shirt. Thomas reaches shakily to undo the first button of Newt's shirt but it takes a while because of the excited tremors running through his body. Eventually, Newt pushes his fumbling hand away. "Maybe it'd be better if I do that."

With that, Newt straddles Thomas completely on the chair, thighs trapping him in position as Newt swiftly removes his shirt. It takes mere seconds for them to return to exploring each other's mouths, arms, chests, backs. When Newt dares to brush his hands a little lower than the waist, he giggles into Thomas' mouth at his needy reaction. 

"You know what, Tommy?" Newt breathes, breaking the kiss to gaze hungrily at the boy trapped beneath him. "I think we're both decidedly wearing too many clothes."

"Agreed," Thomas says, voice hoarse with arousal. He can feel his cock throbbing for attention concealed beneath his trousers.

"Do you want to do something about that?" 

Thomas nods and after a further chaste kiss, is lightened at the relieved pressure as Newt stands from his lap. He looks down at Thomas, maintaining eye contact with his good eye the entire time whilst he removes his trousers, leaving him as bare as by the lake in his underwear. Thomas smugly notes Newt's hard cock clearly visible through the thin material of his pants. He joins Newt in standing and quickly removes his own trousers before he can no longer resist running his hands over Newt's beautiful body, scarred as it is. 

Newt grins and leads him over to the ominous bed in the middle of the room. He is laid down gently across the sheets and lies on his side to face Newt, kissing him once more.

The kiss grows more frantic and Thomas cautiously begins to explore the newly exposed skin of Newt's thighs, waist. He tentatively brushes his hands across the material at Newt's arse but proceeds no further.

Suddenly his wrist is grasped rather forcefully, dragged away from Newt's arse to be pressed against the tented material at the front of Newt's underwear. Thomas' eyes open wide as Newt grins across at him. His eyes with a working pupil is dilated with lust, dark and hungry. "You feel that, Tommy?" Newt whispers and Thomas gulps because he could do little else but the think of the cock underneath his hand. "That's how you make me feel every time I see you. That's how I felt when I first danced with you, when I first saw your face, when we first kissed. I want you, Tommy. I want you so badly."

Thomas' insides twisted with further desperation. It emboldened him to straddle Newt, pinning him to the bed with a passionate kiss. He mouthes at his neck, collarbone before remembering what Newt did to him earlier. Hesitantly, Thomas flicks his tongue over a pert nipple and is met with a needy moan. Grinning, he does it again, this time latching his lips on to the sensitive flesh. Newt squirms and bucks underneath him.

Satisfied with this result and more turned on than he has ever been before, Thomas leans back a flicks a glance down to where Newt's cock is straining against his underwear. He takes a deep breath, nervously fluttering his eyes closed, and reaches down to pull off the final layer of clothing of Newt's skin.

Too late. He hesitates, allowing Newt the time he needs to grab Thomas' arms from underneath him, unbalancing and then flipping him onto his back with a disgruntled protest. Newt grins and swiftly removes Thomas' underwear in a matter of seconds.

Thomas' cock springs free of it's confinement and his face blushes a red so hot that it spreads down his neck. He is still wallowing in his own embarrassment when he notices that Newt has removed his own underwear too, both of them now completely naked.

Newt slinks down the bed elegantly until he is hovering over Thomas' crotch, cock begging for attention. Thomas sees a gleam in Newt's eye and his tongue flicks out seductively to wet his lips momentarily. Thomas realises what is happening just in time for Newt to take his cock into his mouth.

All thoughts go out the window.

Newt's skilled mouth works at him with ease, undoing his thoughts with gentle licks and subtle pressure. Thomas couldn't believe that all these sensations are real, that the beautiful boy and his skilled mouth wants him, loves him. 

Newt flicks his tongue across his slit. At this, he can't help but moan out loud and his body buck upwards naturally, craving more pressure. Newt uses his two strong hands to forcefully grind Thomas' hips firmly into to mattress to stop him accidentally choking him again. Newt continues regardless, picking up to pace.

Thomas realises too late to warn Newt that he has reached his limit. He groans Newt's name as he comes, emptying himself into Newt's mouth. Surprisingly, Newt swallows it all, with a slight grimace on his face. 

They kiss again and it takes a few dazed moments to realise Newt is still hard and pressed against him. Suddenly, Thomas panics. There is no way he could do what Newt just did to him. "Do you want me to...umm...?" Thomas gestures.

"Nah, it's okay, I'm close anyway," Newt groans. "I could do with some help though."

He grabs Thomas' hand and guides it to his cock. Now this Thomas does know how to do; after all he still is technically a teenager. Thomas strokes him gently at first but with increasing sped and pressure it only takes a minute for him to come, quivering in Thomas' arms.

They lie side by side in the darkened room, panting a giggling. They do not talk, merely revel in each others company. Thomas soon tires and his eyes droop in desperate need of sleep. Wrapped in Newt's arms he whispers, "I love you."

He never hears a reply. At first he thinks that Newt must already be asleep, or maybe he didn't say is out loud at all. In the morning though, he will learn that Newt had heard him perfectly clearly but was unable to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that was an interesting writing experience...You guys said you wanted longer chapters but this took an age to write...the next update will be quicker I promise! If you're still here after reading whatever that was. (Feedback is always great btw)


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